


For Your Eyes to See

by iamee



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Dubious Consent, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Religious Conflict, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:25:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamee/pseuds/iamee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan learns the hard way that you don't leave your clothes out of sight while swimming. At least not when you're living with Vikings who apparently can't take 'no' for an answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Your Eyes to See

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caylar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caylar/gifts).



> A/N: Sweet Jesus, why is this show so amazing...

**For Your Eyes to See**

 

He can't remember the last time he's felt clean. Since the day his whole life and everything he was used to has crumbled under unpitying feet, since he's been captured and taken away into this strange and cruel world of foreign words and hard people, there has been nothing but confusion and dirt. Sweat and blood and spit, the smoke of fire permanently caught in his hair, and a mix of different scents all over his body, everywhere. That's what this world has done to him, it has claimed him with all its nuances, is trying to seep into his very soul through every pore and every little way he's open to its intrusions.

Not even his thoughts have remained pure and probably that is the worst of all things he has to face.

So Athelstan takes a deep breath and dives under the water, feeling the lake's surface closing above his head, cold and dark, and he is surrounded by nothing but quietness, filling his ears and his nostrils and cleansing him of everything that has been sticking to his skin, made him itch these last nights when he lay there on his straw mattress without finding sleep.

The water can't help to clear his mind, though.

Too much has stirred him, has shaken him to the core of his body where he never thought such a turmoil could take place. But now there is and he has nothing but his faith as a weapon and it is slipping from his fingers, slowly but surely.

His capturers aren't evil people, but they are bewildering in ways that once seemed unimaginable.

They keep inviting him into their bed, their words dripping sweet like honey on some days and flying crude like curses on others, making his face burn and his stomach twist as he shakes his head to them in silent answer. He can hear them when they return to their room after he's turned them down, again and again, night after night, and they know he has to listen because there is nothing to save him from the sounds and images coming from next door.

And he cannot refuse them for much longer.

His resistance is wearing thin and it makes him fear to see himself helpless in the face of temptation. Shouldn't he be stronger, stay virtuous even in the privacy of his own mind? He's been able to be good for so long, how can these people, these wild and unashamed creatures whose gods are many and frightening, how can they make him so weak?

His lungs are burning with the lack of air and he breaks through the surface, gasping in breath after breath, water running down his face from where his hair is heavy on his scalp. It keeps growing, covering up the bald patch in the middle, his fingers shaking whenever he picks up a knife to cut it back. More blood to be spilled and the smell makes him feel sick. Even his own body wants him to forget his old life. Treacherous thing that it is.

When he feels like he can breathe again, he wipes the wetness from his face, turning around to the land and blinking into the sunlight. He's feeling refreshed but tired, not from a day full of work, but from a weariness deep in his bones that leaves his forehead cold with sweat whenever he thinks too hard about it.

As his eyes search the shore, looking for the clothes he's laid out on stones to dry, he notices two things in a considerably short amount of time.

One, the clothes are gone.

Two, he is no longer alone.

He is a bit too far off to actually _see_ , but it seems like Ragnar is smiling. But then again, when is he not smiling? Even when he is threatening to kill he can smile. He doesn't know fear or remorse and it's causing something in Athelstan to shiver when he realises that he's feeling safer nevertheless, whenever Ragnar is there. It's a safety that comes with danger. A beguiling safety.

Though he doesn't feel very safe just now.

"Ragnar." He calls out, sinking a little deeper into the water again, until he is covered up to his chest. "How long have you been standing there?"

The answer is filled with quiet laughter: "A while."

Athelstan closes his eyes, lowers his voice, afraid of the next question or more precisely of the answer: "Did you happen to come upon my clothes?"

A moment of silence and then, confidently: "Yes, they're here." A little pause where he imagines Ragnar's smile to grow devilish. "I've even folded them for you."

Athelstan's biting down on his lip as he looks up, hands moving about him as he's trying to search for the right thing to say, to hide his embarrassment and disturbing the quiet water with his grasping fingers: "Could you perhaps bring them a little closer so I can get dressed?"

Ragnar does not even miss a beat, his voice soft: "No."

It's cold out there in the lake and he can almost feel his lips turning blue, feels the shuddering of his body with every movement of the water against his skin. He needs to get out of here and there seems to be only one way left for him to go. Even if he doesn't want to. Even if he's feeling mortification with every quickened beat of his heart and the rushing of his blood through his veins. His head bowed down he starts walking through the glistening wetness around him, slowly approaching the shore and emerging from the waves as bare as on the day he's entered this world.

The wind is cool on his skin and when it caresses over his hipbones he feels his face heating, clutching his hands in front of him and covering himself for the last few steps until there is only water sloshing against his ankles and he has to look up again to see where he's going.

Ragnar is waiting for him a few feet ahead on the grass, standing completely still and his eyes resting on Athelstan without even a hint of shame at his open staring. He's looking at him like someone might consider a fine animal he's bought, finding joy in its movements and healthy state. He's looking at him with the eyes of a pleased owner.

Athelstan swallows under his gaze, wanting to turn around and run back into the water but that is not an option.

"My clothes." He repeats, his fingers pressing against his skin and wishing desperately Ragnar's eyes would stop roaming over his body.

"Come and get them."

He's learning new ways of shame every day he's here and it's not different now that he's walking naked over stones and grass until he comes to stand in front of the other man.

"I'm here." Athelstan says, his eyes directed to the blueness of Ragnar's gaze and his heartbeat impossibly loud in his ears. "And you've had your fun, so please let me ––"

"Not so fast, priest." Another smile and before he can take a step back, Ragnar's hand is on his arm, gliding down to his wrist and to what he's hiding underneath. "You'll get them soon enough."

He opens his mouth to protest but there is something gleaming in Ragnar's eyes that makes him shut his lips tightly. Fingers are brushing over his pulse and Ragnar leans in, his lips close to Athelstan's ear lobe as he speaks again, very patiently like he's trying to calm a horse with soft words.

"Show me."

He cannot mean it. 

Athelstan starts back a little, bringing enough space between them so he can stare up at Ragnar, his blue eyes wide with surprise and shock: "What?"

"You heard me." His voice is not unfriendly, his head tilted to one side as he returns Athelstan's stare.

"Why?" Athelstan asks lowly, his eyes dancing over Ragnar's features in search of mockery, a joke he doesn't understand yet, a hint that this will be over soon. 

"Because I would like to see you."

There is a lump in his throat when he replies: "I'm sure it is nothing you haven't seen before."

The corner of Ragnar's mouth twitches into a crooked smile: "Why don't you leave that for me to decide?"

He's not pushing down on his hand, he's simply holding him in place, thumb rubbing over his pulse again and Athelstan shivers, feeling hot under his intense look and yet not able to avert his eyes. What is he to do, what can he do? He has to leave the cold water because it might kill him, and he has to yield to Ragnar's eyes because he can't refuse him. Slowly, very slowly he opens his hands, lets them sink down and fall next to his thighs as Ragnar moves back to observe him in his entire bareness.

If he thought his face was burning with shame before, he is learning fast that it was nothing compared to the heat that is making him flush all over now.

His voice is hoarse when he has gathered enough courage, enough dignity to speak again: "Now... my cowl? If you please?"

"What pleases me is seeing you like this," Ragnar says innocently enough, reaching out and brushing a wet curl from Athelstan's forehead. 

"But now you've seen it." Athelstan replies firmly, feeling water dripping down his back and his skin seeming to become smaller, too small for him with every second Ragnar keeps eyeing him like a tempting prey. "All of it." He whispers, not being able to swallow down the words.

"I have," agrees Ragnar, his fingertips on Athelstan's temple, tracing a drop of water. "And there is nothing you have to hide, little man."

It's like torture, torment using no instruments but looks and words, light touches and the vibration of Ragnar's voice so close, sounding dark and smooth like the water that has surrounded him before. If only the man was as easy to escape as the lake...

He clears his throat, without result, feeling like choking on his sentences, the foreign language suddenly hard on his tongue and pressing against his teeth: "It's decency that makes me cover myself, rather than modesty."

Athelstan wishes he could take it back, his mouth sometimes faster than his mind, but Ragnar doesn't seem to take offence, laughing instead, his eyes like blue fire: "But modesty so becomes you."

He's trying again, a weak attempt to make himself heard: "Then let me dress myself." 

"So demanding today." Ragnar shakes his head, inching closer. "How about you give me something in exchange?"

"What?" There has to be a misunderstanding, he hasn't heard it correctly, doesn't know the words' meaning. Because Ragnar is not asking of him what he thinks he's asking. It cannot be.

"What is there I could give you?" He asks, almost inaudibly and Ragnar's hand comes to rest on his jaw, fingers lifting up his chin and forcing him to look him dead in the eye.

"How about a kiss for a start?"

He's aware that his mouth is hanging open and he quickly closes it, taking a deep breath through his nose and frowning at the Viking: "A kiss?"

Ragnar chuckles, keeping him close with his touch and leaning in again, his lips almost brushing against Athelstan's: "You do know what a kiss is, do you, priest?"

Any second someone could come out in the open, following the path through the woods leading to the lake and see them standing here. How can Ragnar be so calm, so at ease? Certainly, he's not the one in the nude but surely he cannot find the thought of being caught like this, in this situation, he cannot find it arousing... can he...?

Athelstan's fingers are curling into fists at his sides as he answers: "Of course I know. I'm a monk, not an imbecile."

"Then show me." Ragnar's breath is warm on his skin and his voice is so very alluring, the tips of his fingers rough against Athelstan's chin.

Once again, what can he do? If he wants to cover his shame, if he doesn't wish to walk back to the village wearing nothing but his own skin, he needs to do as he's being told. And in any way, he could have been asked for far worse than a kiss.

Therefore he closes his eyes and moves his head, bringing their mouths up to each other and pressing his lips to Ragnar's, soft and chaste, a kiss like an embrace, but Ragnar doesn't try to deepen it, lets him pull away when he's done.

"There." Athelstan murmurs, blinking against the water drops that keep getting caught in his lashes. "My exchange."

The grip on his jaw tightens barely perceivable and Ragnar utters a breath: "I'm feeling like you're not comfortable."

"Why would I be ––" He stops himself and shuts his eyes once more. "I fulfilled my part of the deal, now it is your turn."

Laughter is filling his ears and fingers drop from his face, freeing him of the other man's touch and almost making him stumble forward at the loss of connection.

Ragnar's voice is full of a dark amusement: "I asked for a kiss, not a mother's goodnight."

"But I ––"

He's cutting of his protest: "Open your eyes."

Athelstan obeys, just in time to see Ragnar tug at his shirt, pulling it over his head, and revealing his chest and muscles flexing under skin. Athelstan's stomach drops and his mouth goes dry at the sight. He knows he's not much to look at compared to the chiselled body of the man in front of him. He's thin and his skin reddened by the blood that is coursing hotly through him and singing in his ears. And to have him watch while Ragnar slips out of his clothes... how is this supposed to make him feel better about his own undressed state?

It seems as Ragnar can read the question in his eyes and he grins as he reaches to undo his trousers, pushing them down easily, without hesitation and Athelstan looks away, Ragnar's voice reaching his ears while he stares at the lake's quiet surface.

"We're the same now. There is nothing to be ashamed of."

"That is an easy thing for you to say."

Hands fall onto his shoulders, startling him and all-too soon he's turning his head and recognises his own reflection in Ragnar's eyes, his hair only beginning to dry in the cool wind and his eyes wide. He doesn't want to see himself like this.

"Let's try this again." Ragnar whispers, moving one hand to the back of his neck and stepping closer until their chests are pressed against each other and Athelstan forgets to worry about somebody seeing them (maybe even forgets about God seeing them) because there is nothing but skin and warmth and Ragnar's scent when he bows down and captures his lips.

He didn't imagine for Ragnar to kiss like this. Languidly, drawing out motions and stilling at once, breathing against the corner of his mouth and then moving in again, teeth merely grazing his bottom lip and the pressure never too much, never brutal. He's claiming his mouth in a soft but all-encompassing way, making Athelstan open his lips in a silent gasp and Ragnar's nudging at the tip of his tongue so that he flinches, trapped by the fingers digging into his skin but shuddering nevertheless.

It goes on for a while, their heads tilted and their mouths open, Ragnar's taste on his tongue and his lips, his beard scratching over the smooth skin around his mouth. He will be sore there in the morning, surely. But then Athelstan has to have air, his breath being taken away from him just like everything else. Nothing belongs to him anymore, but he isn't complaining. Not now.

"That was not bad." Ragnar says, hands gliding over Athelstan's shoulder blades and down his back, coming to rest on his hips. "But you can do better." And he's pushing their bodies closer, lining up their chests and pressing their groins together as he sinks his teeth into Athelstan's bottom lip, letting go after a short moment and sucking at the slight bruise.

Athelstan is wincing, writhing in his grip and still he finds himself kissing back, his fingernails digging into Ragnar's back because there is nothing else to hold onto. Whiteness is flashing behind his lids at the sheer pressure of the body so near to his own, at the complete skin to skin contact that seems to extinguish the world beyond their embrace.

Ragnar is ruining him and they both know it. 

"Please," he breathes into Ragnar's cheek when there is a moment of pause, his forehead leaned to Ragnar's temple and his heart beating like it is preparing itself to burst out of his ribcage. But if he were to die now he would be lost already. His soul has already been corrupted, even before his body.

He doesn't know if he's asking him to stop, to continue, to let go of him, to draw him closer. The air is cold but his skin is feverish. His body is cleaned but his thoughts are filthy, supplying images where he doesn't know the words and making him ache with want for something he cannot understand.

Ragnar's fingers move from his hips, slide between them and wrap around him. It's like every inch of Athelstan's body is screaming for the same attention, calloused hands touching where his skin has been a secret for so long, so vulnerable and he can't help but lean into the touch, biting back a whimper and shutting his eyes hard enough to hurt.

"Not every part of you is as soft as your lips." Ragnar murmurs into his ear, stroking him, stroking them both while he rolls his hips forward, intensifying the friction so that it becomes almost unbearable not to follow his motion.

The words bring another flow of boiling blood to Athelstan's face. It is not just to feel like this, embarrassment and arousal equally strong in the depths of his guts and rushing through him like the ocean at high tide.

"Ragnar..." 

Oh, he is mortified to hear the begging in his own voice, but at least it causes Ragnar to take a sharp breath next to his jaw and grip him harder so he's seeing stars for a split second. There is slickness between them, sweat and other liquid Athelstan doesn't want to think about and Ragnar's moving hands cause _sounds_ from in between their skin as well as from their throats. 

He could drop to the ground at once, burying his face in his hands and wish the shame away when Ragnar moans against his throat, licking the sweat off his skin and biting the spot below his collarbone. 

"Come here." He growls despite the fact that there is nowhere else to go and Athelstan swallows, letting himself be pulled even closer and down to the ground where Ragnar pushes a leg between his thighs and continues to move against him. Every time his thumb's brushing over the tip of Athelstan's cock it's eliciting a noise from his throat he didn't know himself capable of making.

The grass is soft underneath them, warmed by the sun and in this position he's safe from the wind, sheltered by Ragnar's body and he buries his face in the crook of his neck, one hand on his shoulder, the other pressing against his spine, not trying to escape any longer but eager not to lose the contact, awed by the sensations it's causing to lean into Ragnar.

"Oh." Stupid, little sounds escaping him as Ragnar's fingers curl into his hair and pull a little, fingernails scratching over his skull. He opens his eyes, feeling Ragnar's hand stilling between them and finding it maddening, being so hard that every second separating him from relief feels like a life time.

"I want to see." Ragnar says, his eyes piercing blue and his voice like distant thunder. "I want to see it in your eyes."

Athelstan trembles against him, the world spinning around them and the sky open above their heads. But he doesn't turn away from his gaze, his hand slipping from Ragnar's back to his waist and over his stomach to the heat between them, fingers grazing softest skin, and the scent that is coming from each of their bodies lets him lick his lips before he knows what he's doing.

"Then look." He whispers.

It's like the universe is dancing in Ragnar's eyes. Bluer than the sky and blacker than the darkness between the stars. If God can see them at this moment He must know that Athelstan doesn't stand a chance. This gaze has followed him even into his dreams.

Their joined hands are moving in the space between them, not purposefully like before, but fast and desperate, neediness making them urgent and their movements sloppy. Blood is rushing in Athelstan's ears and his chest is lifting and lowering unsteadily because there is never enough air, regardless of how many breaths he's taking. Ragnar's lips are slightly parted and he's looking at him with a sort of wonder in his expression.

And then Ragnar's brushing over his balls with his knuckles, giving him a fast, hard tug, their hands bumping into each other as Athelstan imitates the motion unthinkingly, and his knees are trembling, and his sight goes blurry as he throws back his head, eyes and mouth open and everything crashing down inside of him, all heat pooling in his stomach and dripping out of him into Ragnar's opened fingers.

Athelstan's breathing hastily, hearing Ragnar moan and then he's spilling too, their bare stomachs sticky, and sweat coating their limbs when they kneel there, holding onto each other and their hearts racing in their chests like mad things.

He doesn't feel clean any longer, but there is a deep satisfaction humming in his bones and he thinks that he might fall asleep just like this, head leant to Ragnar's shoulder, without dreams that disturb him from his slumber. Until morning comes and he has to face what he has done.

Ragnar's pressing a kiss to his lips before he lets go of him, sinking to the ground and rolling over onto his back, looking up at the sky and smiling drowsily: "Now that was a proper kiss."

Athelstan swallows, the wind now cool again on the wetness of his stomach, his entire body heavy like stones. But so good. Oh, so good.

"Now I have to go for another swim." He mutters, more to himself than to anyone else, but Ragnar snorts, laughs, nevertheless.

"You do that." Just when Athelstan's getting ready to move, a strong hand wraps around his wrist, the touch hot as fire and Ragnar's voice is suddenly close again. "But for now stay here for a little while." He blinks and white teeth flash him another smile. "With me."

He cannot refuse this man and he doesn't understand how he ever thought he could. 

So Athelstan curls up next to him, fighting off sleep and his fingers touching his own chin every now and then, feeling the burn that beard stubbles have left there already. Such marks will fade, but he'll know how they felt, just like he now knows what sin tastes like. And an all-too pleasurable taste at that.

He shudders at the thought and closes his eyes.

oOo

"So did your plan work out to your liking?" Lagertha asks later that night, leaning in to Ragnar and studying his face.

Ragnar's eyes dart over into the corner where Athelstan is talking to Gyda. The priest looks up briefly and meets his gaze, blushing deeply and returning to the conversation, stumbling over a syllable and causing the girl to laugh at his intonation.

"You could say so." Ragnar replies, giving her a smile.

"Will he be ready tonight?" She continues quietly, smiling back at her husband and lowering her eyes almost coyly. They both know better than that.

"Don't be impatient." He murmurs, hands finding their way to her hips and drawing her against him. "Just like we said, small steps. He will get there."

 

**The End**


End file.
